Wesley Morris

The most powerful moment in the film is a tiny one. Anker and his Irvine, Leo Houlding, plan to reenact most of Mallory's climb wearing gabardine and hobnail boots instead of North Face and Gore-Tex.

Grace is grace, and however it arrives, there's no denying its presence.

On screen something happens that goes beyond Monk's powers of description and Fanning's way of seeming 14 and 44 at the same time.

A movie loaded with strange delights.

The Strip makes you appreciate what hard work effortless comedy is.

In attempting to show us a love blind to class, culture, and color, she's (Chadha) also made it bland.

Directing Annapolis is Justin Lin, whose previous feature was the irresponsible high-school comedy thriller "Better Luck Tomorrow." This second movie is more his speed.

At its core, Quinceañera, a modest but remarkably poignant comedy, is the story of a neighborhood.

At least one chapter in the yet-to-be-written book "When Bad Movies Happen to Good People" belongs to the folks of Company Man.

For a little while, comedy ensues.

The film doesn't amount to an emotionally palpable experience. Most of the stops it attempts to pull out are rusty. The movie ends with a gigantic lump in its throat, one that would take a tall glass of Barbara Stanwyck to wash down.

The film's centerpiece is a massacre at a wet T-shirt contest, which the horror director Alexandre Aja has a good time staging (yes, Eli Roth, we see you with the water gun). But it feels like an imitation of B-movie beach schlock and John Waters. The visual humor lacks wit or nerve.

There is no plot in Pen-ek Ratanaruang's exceedingly mellow situation comedy, and that's preferred, frankly.

Brown lays out his guiding philosophy up front when he says of the Baja, ''This isn't about a race, it's about the human race."

For Hilton haters, the stupid and grotesque remake of House of Wax will only stoke their schadenfreude.

Jolie doesn't seem entirely bored with the routine. She has a laugh or two at her bionic image: Evelyn is a woman who uses a maxi pad as a bandage.

A featherweight parlor-room French farce in need of an anchor to keep it from being blown away by the summer blockbuster gales.

"Rear Window" never comes up in the Disturbia press notes, which is probably just as well since it steals that movie's premise but none of Alfred Hitchcock's wit, finesse, or seduction.

The lack of sexual tension is astounding.

Stardust certainly could have gone somewhere fun. But the magic and zip you need to get a blimp like this off the ground is scarce.

The film is nothing to be ashamed of (especially if you're Kingsley). But it's as if everybody involved knows what the deal is.

One wants to find enlightenment - or at least entertainment - in this reconsideration of Playboy and of Hefner. But it's tainted.

Might as well have been written by a rushed piece of software. The program calls for a surprise engagement, a street fight complete with crotch punches, an apartment eviction, and a runaway child - all in about five minutes. As an obstacle course, this is mighty efficient. As comic storytelling, it's painful, not too far from being socked in the crotch.

Regardless of how cheated out of a full-bodied motion picture you feel, you're still left with the year's sickest bathroom humor.

A bonanza of pop uplift. It wraps the up-from-nothing drama of ''Flashdance'' in the sassy, interracial pep rallying of ''Bring It On'' and the military romance of ''An Officer and a Gentleman.''

The casting alone should warn you about what kind of bottom this movie's going to hit.

The movie, from South Africa, is charming and its characters' feelings sincere enough. It's just so cluttered.

A sound piece of profiling that has miles of archival footage of the affable, pop-eyed Langlois enthusing.